


under the roses

by sinequanon



Series: telling tales [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-06 22:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18226316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Wherein Stiles has a bad day, meets a djinn, and channels Scheherazade, while Peter gets a clue.





	under the roses

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry I held this one back for so long. I kept telling myself that I was going to add to it, but it’s just been sitting for a couple of years now, and it’s time to admit to myself that I’m not going to do anything else with it. This is the last of the fairytale-inspired fics, and it is based on 1001 Nights and “The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl” (China).

It's a bad idea to be laying on the floor, he knows; just like it was a mistake to drift off on the way home from fighting the latest battle, but Stiles can't find it in himself to care. Anyone could come around, asking for something, and notice that something was wrong.

But probably not.

After all, Peter hadn't said a word to him on the drive home about how talkative he wasn't being, too busy poking at Derek to pay any attention to Stiles. He hadn't even waited to make sure that Stiles made it inside safely before driving off. Of course, Stiles knew that all of the non-human pack was meeting up as soon as possible to plan their next attack against the djinn, but it would have been nice for them to have pretended to care about him for a minute or two.

Besides, he already knew the identity of the monster's next victim; not that anybody had asked him. He could feel the strange heaviness in his bones that meant that the djinn was coming for him, and he found that he was remarkably unbothered by that fact. In fact, only his stubbornness was keeping him from closing his eyes and giving in to whatever dreamworld the smug bastard had concocted.

Any second now, he would pull himself up and at least lay on the bed—there was no sense in giving his dad a heart attack when he came home to find his son sprawled out on the ground like a discarded marionette. Although, this portion of ceiling _was_ surprisingly interesting, and he had the sneaking suspicion that his legs had been replaced with sandbags, so...maybe the floor wasn't such a bad spot after all.

Maybe if he gets lucky, one of the werewolves will crawl in his window and trip over his body and break a nose or something; it's just too bad he won't actually get to see it.

By the time the Sheriff gets home the next day, Stiles has been laying on his bedroom floor for thirteen hours. He is cold, and gray, and his heart beats so slowly that his father starts sobbing on the phone in the middle of his emergency phone call when he finally realizes his son is still breathing.

<> <>

All the information that Stiles had read about djinn warned against making wishes: make a wish, and be granted a vision of how the desire plays out. But it's a false hope, because the wish never actually comes true, as whoever makes the wish gets trapped in the dreamland and never makes it out to collect their prize. The only person to ever collect a wish had been Scheherazade, who had lasted 1001 nights before her eventual pardon.

Surprisingly, the story of the vizier’s daughter, of her great power and wisdom, was spoken of with reverence (never fear) among the djinn. Stiles hoped to ask more about that, if he made it out alive.

“Hello, Stiles. What is it that you long for the most?”

Stiles opened his eyes in a crowded coffee shop, the djinn sitting across from him with a tiny smirk on his face and steaming cups in front of both of them. The rest of the coffee shop bustled around them as if they didn't exist, in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of the way the wolves had recently been treating him.

“I could fix it, you know,” the djinn said slyly, taking a sip. “I could take you away to a place where everyone would value you, or I could show your friends the error of their ways. Would you like that?”

He would, actually, but he wasn't stupid enough to believe that that kind of wish would work out well for him. And, as angry as he was at his friends right now, he didn't want them to be permanently hurt. The djinn couldn't give him what he really wanted, not beyond this fake dreamland, and Stiles made himself swallow down the dangerous desire.

His fingers played absently with the cup, but he didn't drink the coffee. Instead, he looked the djinn in the eye and said, “I want to tell you a story.”

The djinn laughed, as if he had expected that response, and raised his cup in salute.

<> <>

“That's quite a story.”

Stiles smiled at the memory. “He was quite a wolf.”

_Son, please wake up. I can't do this without you._

“Why do you love him so?”

“I have always loved him,” a small smile, “even when it would have been better if I hadn't.”

“Even now?” the djinn asked, openly curious.

“It's much harder to live for love than it is to die for it,” he admitted, thinking of all of the times the two had thrown themselves into danger, into destruction.

The djinn cocked an eyebrow and took another sip. “Yet you are here.”

Stiles nodded. “But I'm trying to live.”

 _I can't believe this happened. Why didn't you say anything, man? You can't leave me; I can't do this on my own_.

<> <>

 _I'm very angry with you, Stiles. I wish you would have told me of your foolish plan, so I could have tied you up and locked you in my closet to prevent it_.

“He sounds irritated,” the djinn mentioned, frowning in confusion. “I would have thought that he would be happy.”

“Because I'm dying?”

The creature sent him a glare that told him he was being stupid. “Because you're a fighter. Now, tell me another story.”

“I knew from the moment I spotted him across the palace floor that he was meant to be mine…” Stiles began.

“...we could only be together three nights each a year, but those were the best nights of my life…”

“Eventually, it drove me mad to see him with her. He resisted at first, of course, but he grew to love her…”

“...Empress finally sent me away…”

“How could she do that to you?” the djinn huffed, angrily chewing on his pastry. “Her own nephew!”

Stiles smiled at the outrage on the djinn’s face; his fierce support for a person long-dead. “There were far more important things to do than be in love,” he said. “And I was...wasting away. She thought that she could make me forget, that I would once again become her most loyal subject.”

“What happened?”

Stiles shrugged and gave a rueful laugh. “Peter came to see me, in the end. He told me about his wife, and his children, and how they all wished me well. How he cared for me, and never meant to hurt me. How strange, I thought then, that he wanted absolution when I was the one dying.”

“I wanted to kill him,” Stiles's face hardened, “but I had to settle for seeing the shock on his face when I began coughing up black bile—when I was literally dying in his arms—and he realized that it was all his fault.”

<> <>

Stiles and the djinn spoke of other stories, other lives with Peter. Sometimes, they barely had glimpses of each other; separated by geography or ideology. Other lives held short, but passionate love affairs that left them bereft in the aftermath.

Occasionally, there was war, anger, deception, murder.

There were also tales when everything was right, and everyone was happy. Lives where love conquered in the end, and Stiles and Peter grew old and gray together, though they bickered the entire time.

What seemed like a thousand stories later, Stiles and the djinn stared at each other across the coffee shop table.

The djinn pushed a new cup toward Stiles, made just the way he liked it. “I can make you forget, you know. I can give you peace,” he reminded the young man.

Stiles could admit (if only to himself) that he sincerely wanted to take the offer. “I can't,” he said instead.

“I know.” He stood, drawing Stiles up with him. “You have given me a great gift, so I will repay you in kind. Rest, and be well.” The djinn grasped his hands tightly, and Stiles shuddered as the ground suddenly rose up to meet him.

<> <>

Most of the time, it's too hard to fight the darkness. It's warm and peaceful and Stiles takes comfort in the stillness. Sometimes, he hears voices calling to him, but it's easy to ignore them when sleep is a much more tempting prospect.

 _I love you, kid. I love you more than anything, and your mother would kill me if I sent you to see her so soon_.

_You're my best friend in the world, and I'm sorry if I haven't told you that enough. I'm not going to promise to protect you better, because you can protect yourself. You're my brother, and I'll always support you, even if I'm lousy at showing it. Please, Stiles, wake up._

_I don't understand these dreams I'm having, and Deaton is, of course, no help. You can explain them, though, can't you? But you have to come back to me, darling_.

<> <>

Stiles woke to a crowded hospital room: his dad, snoring softly on the sofa; Scott, draped over one of the chairs; Peter, with his head tucked into Stiles’s side.

Almost as soon as Stiles ran his fingers through Peter's hair, the wolf woke. “Stiles,” he said mildly, “if you ever do that again, I'll kill you myself.”

“Did it work?”

Peter huffed. “Of course it did.” He absently started rubbing soothing circles on Stiles's hand and added, “I'm sorry it took me so long to see you.”

“I know.”

“I'd offer you a easy, peaceful life together, but I think that opportunity has already passed, don't you?” The offer was made lightly, but Stiles could see the apprehension lurking in Peter's eyes.

Stiles glanced at his dad, and Scott, and back to Peter. “I don't need easy. I just need you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the sap at the end. Really.
> 
> In other news, my life hasn’t quite settled down yet, unfortunately, though it has to happen sooner or later. So, I’m going to start posting once a month: one TW, Bleach, or Avengers story and 1-2 letters in _alphabet soup_.
> 
> As always, I appreciate your support and thank you for reading!


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